Susan was reading a romance novel behind the reception desk when Cleo limped her way out of the studio, and she frowned in concern.
“Have you been silly again?” she asked, giving Cleo a disapproving glare over the top of her glasses.
“No more than usual.” Cleo shrugged and slung a towel around her neck. She hadn’t bothered to change—merely pulled on a sweat suit to keep her muscles warm. She could be at home and under the shower in less than ten minutes, the studio was so close to her apartment. That was one of the reasons she’d found the apartment so appealing in the first place, despite its many other faults.
She walked home, thankful that the drizzle had stopped even though the wind had picked up and she was walking against it. She was huddled beneath her coat, hands in her pockets and head down as protection from the wind, and didn’t see the huge figure looming ahead of her at the entrance of her building until she was almost on top of him.
She yelped in fright and jumped back with her hand on her chest, prepared to scream or run, when she looked up and saw Dante Damaso peering down at her as if he didn’t recognize her.
“Miss Knight?”
God, why did he still insist on calling her that?
“What do you want?”
“I wanted to inform you that the paternity test result came today.”
“I know.”
“And I want to assure you that you and the child will be provided for.”
“Just the child,” she corrected, and his brow lowered.
“What?”
“You will be providing for only the child. I don’t want your money for myself.”
“But the medical costs alone will—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Do you have a job yet?” His critical gaze swept over her body, and Cleo recognized what a mess she was and had to use every ounce of willpower not to touch her untidy hair self-consciously.
“Not yet.”
“The longer you remain unemployed, the less likely you are to find a job in your”—he made a vague gesture at her stomach region—“uh. Your condition.”
“I’ll work something out. It’s not your concern.” She brushed past him dismissively, hoping he’d take the hint and leave, but he followed her up the stairs to the entrance.
“Perhaps we should discuss these terms of yours,” he said, and she turned to face him, savagely satisfied to note that because she stood several steps above him, she could meet his gaze head-on.
“There’s nothing more to discuss. For a man who likes to keep his personal life clutter free, you’re making a total nuisance of yourself.”
“You know nothing about me,” he grated.
“And you know even less than nothing about me,” she hissed, sticking her face right up to his until they were almost nose to nose.
“I know that you’re stubborn, pregnant, and unemployed. I know that you’re living in a hovel and are financially ill equipped to deal with this pregnancy.”
“Yeah? Well, what’s my name then, smart-ass? Why do you keep calling me Miss Knight?”
“Not because I’ve forgotten your name, Cleopatra,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes fell to her mouth. She cleared her throat, feeling hot and uncomfortable, and she stepped back, but her heel caught the edge of the next step and she lost her balance. She windmilled as she struggled to regain her footing, but his hands dropped to her elbows and steadied her. “I’ve got you. You’re fine.”
Her own hands dug into his forearms as she fought her shock and tried to regain her breath and her equilibrium. One of his hands released its grip and moved up to cup her cheek.
“You’ve gone remarkably pale. Are you okay?”
She started shaking as her fear of falling subsided.
“I’m fine,” she said through chattering teeth. “Just a bit shocked, is all. I mean there wasn’t even the slightest possibility of falling, was there?”
“No,” he agreed. “And if there was, you would probably have landed on me. So you would have been fine.”
“The thought of falling terrifies me a bit,” she confessed. Something she did only because she still felt so off-kilter.
“The scar on your knee?” he asked perceptively. She didn’t respond, merely stared at him mutely.
“I have to go,” she said. “Let’s not do this again sometime.”
“Can I come up?”
She gave him a disbelieving look.
“What? No! You cannot come up.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have this discussion out on the steps, in public?”
“Go right ahead,” she invited, calling his bluff. “You’re the one who doesn’t like his business aired in public. I’m quite comfortable with public scenes. I was once a performer.”
That made him pause, but not for the reason she would have thought.
“You were? What kind of performer?”
She shrugged, uncomfortable with his interest.
“Look, I won’t take up more than five minutes of your time.” He took a step down to give her some space, as if sensing that his presence was making her feel claustrophobic. He held his hands palms up in a gesture of surrender. Cleo looked over his shoulder, noting for the first time that his massive black car was parked next to the curb and that one of his hulking personal protection guys—who often doubled as drivers for him—watched them silently from beside the car.
“Hey, James,” she called, and waved at the huge, tattooed, dark-suited bald man. He wore sunglasses, despite the gloom of the day. He lifted one of his hands to wave back at her.
“How’s your new puppy?” Cleo asked. “Still leaving surprise puddles on the floor for you?”
“He’s getting better,” James replied with a thumbs-up.
“Have you decided on a name for him yet?”
“Piddles.” Cleo laughed, aware of Dante’s incredulity at the bizarre exchange between his bodyguard and former assistant. He focused a glare on James, who refolded his hands loosely in front on him and shifted his stance slightly, until he stood with his legs shoulder-width apart. That quickly, James went from personable and friendly to forbidding and formidable.
“Do you mind? I would like to have a serious conversation with you,” Dante said through clenched teeth, and Cleo sighed.
“I suppose you can come up for five minutes,” she said begrudgingly. “But you’re starting to make a nuisance of yourself.”
“Noted.”
Dante trailed behind Cleo as she led the way to her fourth-floor apartment. He kept his eyes on her narrow, straight back, once again noting her grace and elegant carriage. She really carried herself beautifully, and it was one of the things he’d found so appealing about her.
He didn’t know why he was here, but despite arranging to see Nicki Unwin—one of his regular on-again/off-again lovers—later that evening, he hadn’t been able to get Cleopatra Knight out of his mind today. He had found himself standing at her doorstep for reasons that remained completely unfathomable to him.
As he followed her upstairs, he started to take in his surroundings a bit more. The place was a complete mess. It reeked of mold and damp, the wallpaper was peeling, the light in the stairwell flickered, and the stairs themselves were old and rickety. He couldn’t understand why she lived here. Why didn’t she move in with Lucius? Her brother had that huge old house. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than this place.
“Why not use the elevator?” he asked as he noticed her starting to limp. Her hand, which had previously glided over the banister with barely a touch, started to grip it with each step up.
“Out of order,” she grunted.
“Of course it is.” He couldn’t bite back the sarcasm and immediately regretted it when her back straightened. He had put her even more on the defensive than she had been before. When she finally reached her front door, she was slightly out of breath.
“This won’t get easier, you know,” he said, striving to sound gentle.
“It’s none of your business,” she snapped. Her hair was starting to fall out of the absurd little ponytail she had it in, and he noted that the pink tips had been replaced by pale blue ones. A few of the blue strands were peppered through her bangs as well.
She unlocked her door, and when she stepped aside to allow him entry, he waved her forward. He followed her in and immediately spotted the huge blond guy from the airport seated at the kitchen table, digging into a bowl of cereal.
Instantly beyond furious and feeling absolutely gullible, Dante’s first thought was that she’d duped him. This was, as he had initially suspected, an elaborate ploy to make him believe some other guy’s kid was his, and he’d caught her red-handed. How was she going to explain this guy away?
He turned to face her, ready to give it to her with both barrels, when the annoyed—not guilty, not defensive, not even scared—expression on her face gave him pause.
“You’re eating my Frostees!” Cleo screeched, and Cal dropped his spoon guiltily.
“It was just a taste, I swear, hon. You know I’d never eat too much of the stuff; it’s hugely calorific. Well, hello.” His gaze drifted behind her, and Cleo became aware of the man standing so close by.